Danse Macabre
by A M4D TE4-P4RTY
Summary: No matter one's station in life, the Dance of Death unites all. Welcome to the 48th Hunger Games.
1. The Watchers

_"There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment." - George Orwell, 1984_

* * *

 **The Capitol**

* * *

Over seventy stories high, the building towered about the rest of the street, a gigantic monument of glass and steel. It's many windows gleamed angrily in the late morning sunshine and a flag with the Capitol seal fluttered either side of the door. Above the huge sliding double doors an inscription was wrought out of curling pieces of iron: "ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt". The passers-by paid no attention to the building. It was simply the Ministry of Information.

To law-abiding citizens of the Capitol it was just a building they passed on their way to work or school or the shops, it had no impact on their lives. It simply existed, to what purpose they didn't bother to wonder. There was no need to concern themselves with things that did not concern them.

Inside the building on the 76th floor a man sat in a small rectangular room. Everything about him was average. He was average height, average build maybe verging on a little chubby. His hair was a nondescript sandy colour, greying slightly at the temples, his eyes were an unremarkable watery blue behind little round spectacles. Even his face was forgettable, the sort of face no one would ever notice in a crowd or remember even if they did. His clothes were as bland as the rest of his appearance, a badly fitting suit in shades of beige and charcoal.

He was tapping away at a computer keyboard, surrounded by banks and banks of computer screens. To his left a sleek black phone sat at his elbow and a pair of headphones were clamped firmly over his ears.

"Channel One," the man said in a high, reedy voice, clearing his throat with a little cough.

To his left a screen flickered into life. It showed a picture of a young girl, twelve maybe thirteen years old, being torn apart by two older boys, both armed with vicious looking knives. The girl was screaming and gore was splattering the faces of her two manically grinning murderers as they hacked away at her with their daggers, all to the backdrop of dramatic music and delighted gasps from a studio audience.

The man pressed a button and the screen went black again. Just a replay of last year's Hunger Games. Nothing wrong with that.

"Channel Two," he called into the stillness of the room.

On the second screen along an image appeared of a stage. Two high-backed chairs were set upon it and in the chairs reclined two men, the interviewer and his guest, a gamemaker judging by his uniform.

The man shifted slightly in his seat and turned up the volume to hear what they were discussing.

"So what you are basically saying is that the arena was more difficult to set up this year?", the interviewer was asking, one perfectly plucked eyebrow arching delicately towards his hairline.

The gamemaker smiled and leant in closer. "That's exactly what I'm saying, sir", he stage-whispered offering his host a conspiratorial wink. "Obviously I can't say much more than that..." He paused allowing the other man time to agree with him. "What I can tell you is that we're in for a real treat this year. That I can guarantee!"

Again, the man switched the screen off. Nothing untoward on Channel Two either. So far everything was looking good. If things stayed like this maybe he would get to lunch on time and all the pies wouldn't have gone from the canteen for once. He allowed himself a second to hope before turning back to his work. Best not tempt fate.

"Channel Three." - A fashion programme speculating about the probable design of this year's chariot outfits.

"Channel Four." - Children's television programme entitled: "How to survive in the area!"

"Channel Five." - A chat show featuring some doctor or other giving his opinion on the Games.

The man flicked through the channels in quick succession, his mind only half on the job in hand. More than half his thoughts were already occupied with other things. His lunch, his lunchtime assignation with Melinda from accounting, had he left the iron on when he left for work that morning?

"Channel Six." - A panel of middle-aged women gossiping about the merits of the current Head Gamemaker and the attractiveness of said gamemaker's eyes and other features.

"Channel Seven." - A history of the Hunger Games arenas over the ages.

"Channel..." He stopped, his mind flicking back to something he had just heard. He couldn't be sure what, but it was there, nagging at the corners of his mind like a persistent itch. He had missed something.

In his mind a war was raging. On the one hand there was a juicy steak and kidney pie and Melinda from accounting. On the other, even more work and another lonely meal of rubbery sandwiches from the dispensing machine.

He could easily just pretend he had never seen whatever it was he had seen, check the last few channels and head down to the canteen. After all, he didn't even know what he _had_ seen. Maybe he was just imagining things.

But even as he thought it, the man knew he would never do that. It would mean failing to do his job properly, and in the Ministry of Intelligence failure was not an option. The last employee who had missed something, even though it had only been a single sentence, had been detained and interrogated by the peacekeepers for sympathising with dangerous terrorists. Even now he was still being held in some obscure prison somewhere, probably in solitary confinement.

The idea of peackeepers bursting into his room in the middle of the night and dragging him out of bed to be interrogated and probably arrested made up his mind for him. "... Five," he finished.

The screen directly in front of him flickered back into life.

"... body temperature drops below 28°C. The body's systems start to fail – the heart rate drops, the breathing becomes shallow or stops altogether, the blood pressure drops. The patient loses the ability to speak or think properly. Cellular metabolic processes shut down. Walking becomes almost impossible and the patient begins to show irrational behaviour. The patient becomes unconscious. Major organs begin to fail and the patient dies."

On the screen the man could see a table surrounded by high-backed chairs. Debaters occupied each chair, most of them currently frowning in disgust. The man speaking was clearly a Capitol doctor. His lab coat was made of sheer red material and his hair stuck up in spikes coloured to match. An ugly expression crossed his face as he leant forwards across the table to emphasise his point.

"In the final stages of hypothermia patients creep into small enclosed spaces, a primitive burrowing behaviour. It is the body's last response, a self-protective behaviour, and the body's desperate attempt to keep itself alive. When watching the Hunger Games, we sit back and watch children lose control over their own bodies, the indignity of not being in control in their last moments. We watch them die of completely preventable causes and do nothing. And this is what we show on our televisions. This is what we show our children? Each year, how many tributes die of hypothermia? In cold arenas maybe even up to half. These deaths..."

The man flicked a switch and the sound was muted on the screen. Excitement was buzzing through his veins. He had found it. After all the hours of searching through the television channels for anti-Games opinions, he had found someone. His bosses would be pleased. Maybe he would even be rewarded. One thing was for certain, he would not end up in solitary confinement like his erstwhile colleague. Maybe he would even be able to take Melinda out to a fancy restaurant.

His hand strayed to the sleek, black phone. "Sir, Channel Five. Recommend operation Trojan."

The screen in front of him went blank and crackled with static. The words 'We apologise for the interruption. Technical issues have interrupted our broadcast. The scheduled programmes will continue shortly.' flashed across the screen.

The man smiled and leant back in his chair. Things were out of his hands. He had done his job, it was up to someone else now. The best thing for him to do was to go down to lunch. He'd get a pie and tell Melinda all about what he'd found.

As he left the room, the man couldn't help smirking slightly. He didn't know what was about to happen to the unfortunate doctor, but he was prepared to bet it wasn't going to be anything good.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **The quote over the doors translates roughly as 'The Fates lead the willing one, the unwilling one they drag' - Seneca the Younger, aka Lucius Annaeus Seneca.**

 **They say practice makes perfect and everyone has to start somewhere... So this is my first attempt at a SYOT (There was one on this account before but that was with my sister when this was still a joint account). Any feedback, positive or negative, would be a great help.**

 **The deadline is Tuesday, 30th June at midnight GMT. If I don't get enough/any submissions, obviously I'll have to extend it. The form is on my profile.**

 **Anyway, welcome to _Danse Macabre_ _,_ I look forward to seeing what tributes people come up with :D I hope you enjoy... :) Tea xx**


	2. Brothers in Arms

"He who controls the past controls the future. He who controls the present controls the past." - George Orwell, 1984

* * *

Dr. Scipio Hendrik, The Capitol

* * *

The night was cold as Dr. Scipio Hendrik, Skip to his close friends, made his way home from work. An icy wind was whipping the leaves off the trees and whirling them around his head and he was forced to turn up the collar of his coat to protect his ears from the vicious gusts. In his hands he clutched a stack of documents that the wind was doing it's best to tear from his numb fingers. His eyes streamed with the cold, almost blinding him as he battled his way along the deserted street towards home and a warm, luxurious bath.

He was a tall man, around 35 years old, with pale amber eyes and skin the colour of dark chocolate. His dark hair was short, the ends of the many gelled spikes died blood red to match the lab coat he usually wore. The effect made it seem like something had been impaled on the spikes and bled to death on his head. Skip hated it. He found himself wishing the wind would ruin his hairstyle beyond repair, but whatever product it was his hairdresser had used seemed invincible.

That was the thing about being a doctor in the Capitol. It wasn't about helping people, it was about maintaining an image. Wrong image, no patients – no patients, no money, simple as. Image was everything.

The other thing about being a Capitol doctor was that everybody always had such preconceived notions about you, Skip thought grumpily as he turned the corner into his own street. It was astounding how many people heard 'doctor' and asked him how much a facelift cost or if Botox was really _very_ painful or what the maximum sized breast implants were. One woman had even asked him if it would be possible to implant enough silicone into her shoulders to make it look like she had the wings of an angel. No one ever considered the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he was actually a proper medical doctor, not some crackpot old quack who got rich off turning the Capitol's population into walking plastic circus freaks.

In fact, at least twenty times a day Skip found himself explaining that, no, he was most certainly _not_ a plastic surgeon and it was unethical to charge people vast amounts of money to surgically alter their bodies when it would do their health no good whatsoever.

That was usually the moment in the conversation at parties when the adoring crowd of women (and men) who had gathered around him started to slowly disperse.

Skip sighed and buried his free hand deeper within the folds of his coat. Nearly home now, only a few more steps and he'd be out of this dreadful wind.

A few doors down Skip stopped suddenly, staring through the gloom at his front door. A woman was stood on his doorstep wrapped up in a long brown mack, collar turned up to hide her face, with an unattractive felt hat jammed right down over her eyes. Only a couple of blonde curls peeped out from under the edges of the hat and her shapely legs poked out from under the coat, feet clad in shiny red heels. The effect was bizarre, she looked rather like she had stepped out of a detective story in some cheap, early twentieth century novel.

What was even more bizarre was the fact she was clearly waiting for him, as, when Skip approached her, she pushed off from the doorframe and made her way to meet him. "Dr Hendrik?", she asked, raising her voice to make herself heard over the wind. There was a faint lilting accent to her voice that Skip couldn't quite place. Definitely not a Capitol accent.

He eyed her cautiously, trying to catch a glimpse of her face under the hat. Nothing. "Yes?"

"I saw you yesterday on television before they stopped broadcasting. Chanel Five? The debate? You spoke out against the Games."

Skip remembered. He'd been invited to participate in a debate on the ethical issues surrounding the Hunger Games. As a well-known medical man, they had assumed he might be a valuable asset to the panel which already consisted of a headmistress, two scientists and a handful of politicians.

When they said 'debate' Skip had known full well that there would never be any debate. Everyone would sit around congratulating the government on their genius idea of creating the Hunger Games all those years ago and wipe away any possible doubts anyone watching might have had as to the morality of murdering 23 innocent children. Famous people praising the Games was enough to keep the shallow, stupid Capitolites convinced that they were a good idea and that murder was, in fact, not morally wrong after all as long as you packaged it as a sporting event not as the slaughter of innocents.

He had tried his hardest to go along with the others, saying as little as possible and only when directly asked for an opinion, but it had only worked to an extent. The others had been so fanatically pro-Games that, try as he might, he had been unable to control his temper. Skip distinctly remembered giving a rather fierce lecture about hypothermia at one point and getting rather riled up about the whole thing. On reflection and with a stranger stood on his doorstep asking awkward questions about it, Skip decided that this may possibly have been a mistake.

"Well, I wouldn't say _against_ the Games exactly", Skip mumbled cautiously. "Maybe against some of the more drawn-out..."

The woman didn't give him time to finish. "Here!" She shoved a letter into his hands. "Read this and if you agree meet me outside the training centre at dusk tomorrow."

Skip glanced down at the paper and noticed the envelope was covered in thin, spidery handwriting. It looked very old. "What...", he began looking up in confusion. The woman was nowhere in sight, it was as if she had just vanished into thin air.

Shaking his head, the doctor unlocked his door and entered, bolting it again behind him just in case.

It wasn't until later, when he was lying back in a warm bath with a glass of red wine balanced at his elbow and the soft strains of Vivaldi's Four Seasons floating through the open door that Skip decided to read the letter. He had been in two minds about it and puzzling about it over dinner had rather spoiled his digestion.

Without getting up, Skip reached over and grabbed his coat off the floor by the bath, pulling the letter out of his pocket. His first impression had been right, it was very old. The paper was yellowing and cracked in place, the ink faded. The seal on the back had long since peeled away, leaving only a greasy stain to show where it had once been. Skip flipped open the envelope, pulled out the sheet of paper inside and read:

 _To the future, as pretentious as that address might sound,_

 _I am writing this on a sad day for Panem. The war is over, the Capitol has subdued the districts but at what cost? District Thirteen has been utterly destroyed, it's citizens wiped out. The other districts have suffered horrendous losses, as have we. Must peace always come at such a price?_

 _And even now the killing must continue but, as if we weren't monstrous enough before, it is our children who must now become killers. If you are reading this in the future then you will know what the Hunger Games entail. If you are reading this, that means the Games have been implemented and continued annually, as planned. How many children have died so far? How many years have the districts suffered at our hands?_

 _I am writing this letter to let you, the people of the future, know that not all members of the Capitol government condoned this course of action. There are those of us who condemn these Games as what they are, acts of sheer barbarism._

 _We have formed a resistance group. An undercover organisation to fight these Games with whatever means available to us. If you are reading this, you sympathise with our cause. Maybe you even wish to join us? Know this, if you do so, it is at your own risk. The government are barbarians and will stop at nothing to retain power over the districts and their own citizens. If our group is discovered, we will be killed._

 _If you still wish to join us, follow the instructions given to you by whoever gave you this letter. You will recognise members of our organisation by the tattoo of a pair of crossed swords on their right palm. The code word is 'phoenix'._

 _Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favour!_

Skip read the letter three times before carefully folding it back into his pocket. His heart was hammering with excitement and his hands were shaking as he reached for his wine glass. This was it! To think, all this time there had been a secret organisation opposing the Hunger Games, right here in the Capitol, and he had never even known! Right from the beginning there had been people prepared to stand up for what was right. All those wasted years when he could have been helping their cause...

As he got out of the bath and headed upstairs to bed, Skip made up his mind. He would meet the woman tomorrow and join the fight against the Hunger Games. Finally, he would be doing the right thing.

* * *

Author's Note:

I hope you enjoyed the second prologue. Again, feedback is really helpful :)

Thank you to everyone who has submitted so far! I have got some absolutely brilliant tributes!

To anyone still wanting to submit: I'm not telling you where to submit but I am rather short on D2 and D5 guys and D11 in general. If that helps :D

Also, I have loads of good tributes, so I'm tentatively bringing the deadline forwards to the 22nd June at midnight GMT. If I don't get the couple of tributes I'm still missing I'll move it back again.

Tea xx


	3. Thirty Pieces of Silver

" _If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face – forever." - George Orwell, 1984_

* * *

"Henrietta", The Capitol

* * *

The light had been starting to fade when the blonde woman stepped out of the doors of the training centre and draped herself decoratively against the nearest pillar, by now the sky was pitch black, all the streetlights around the square blazing. Tonight her blonde curls were jammed under a black beret set at a jaunty angle and she was wearing a bright red duffle coat, sheer black tights and a furious scowl.

Originally from District One, she was a real beauty, known to her associates simply as 'Henrietta'. Often they found her looks came in handy when approaching men, for some reason they seemed to be less intimidated by her. Probably that was the reason she had been chosen for the Scipio Hendrik assignment and had now been standing around in the freezing cold for hours waiting.

Henrietta stomped her foot angrily. Another no show. She was getting seriously fed up of this. None of the people she delivered letters to ever showed up any more. It was probably the government's latest scare-tactics putting them off. People seemed to be more and more unwilling to speak out against the government. But then again, looking at some of the methods they employed, no wonder people were frightened.

Shrugging philosophically, Henrietta pushed off from the wall. Well, she wasn't going to waste her whole evening waiting out here if the doctor wasn't going to show up. She had better things to do and besides, she was bored.

At that moment a voice called out behind her: "Excuse me?"

She stopped, spinning round in the direction of the noise. Typical. He had showed up after all. Right at the last minute. Henrietta snorted in disgust at the over-used cliché of the situation. This doctor had truly terrible timing. What did he think this was, some terrible spy movie? Clearly this Scipio Hendrik had a sense for the dramatic. Well, might as well humour him and play it up a bit. She didn't want to disappoint him and not live up to his expectations of an undercover rebel organisation. Might put him off.

Henrietta flattened herself dramatically against the nearest pillar. "Not here," she whispered, putting an immaculately manicured finger to her very red lips. "You never know who might be listening. Follow me." She set off across the square, making sure to stick to the shadows and glance furtively over her shoulder every few steps. Behind her she could hear the doctors clumping footsteps. Not exactly the picture of stealth but no one seemed to have noticed them.

They ran for about ten minutes and ended up leaning against a brick wall in a dingy back alley, hidden behind a couple of bins. Henrietta was panting slightly and fanned herself delicately with her beret. "We should be safe here." She paused slightly to glance up and down the clearly deserted alley. "Did you read it?"

The doctor nodded mutely. He seemed to have had a sudden attack of shyness and was looking anywhere but at Henrietta. Currently, his attention seemed to be focussed entirely on his shoelaces.

Henrietta resisted the urge to stamp on his foot. Instead, she dropped the flirty manner and opted for something more businesslike. "What's the matter, cat got your tongue?", she snapped waspishly. "Code word? I need to know you read the letter."

Dr Hendrik looked up. Something in the change of tone seemed to have got through to him. Clearly he was impressed by the no-nonsense professionalism. At least that showed he wasn't just here for the beautiful and mysterious woman. Henrietta smirked to herself. Good, she was getting fed up of acting like a blonde bimbo. Time to show him who was boss. "Come on, we haven't got all day. This is dangerous stuff, you know."

Looking chastised, the doctor muttered: "Phoenix."

"Good. Now we can talk." She moved to stand opposite him and smiled. "And? What did you think?"

At this, the doctor seemed to come alive. His eyes were shining and for the first time he looked directly at her. "I want to join you. I read the letter and I want to join you in our fight against the Hunger Games."

Henrietta beamed at him before quickly adopting a serious facial expression. "You understand the risks? This means you oppose the government, you know what they do to people who disagree with them? The stakes we are gambling are frighteningly high."

"I understand and I realise that this means opposing the government but I can no longer support people who allow this butchery to continue. I want to stop this and if that means a rebellion, so be it!"

"When we last met, you said you weren't exactly against the Games. Is that true?", Henrietta demanded.

Dr Hendrik shook his head. "No, I was lying. I wasn't sure who you were and you can't be too careful."

Henrietta raised a delicately plucked eyebrow. "So you oppose the Hunger Games?

The man opposite her nodded.

"And you are prepared to rebel against the government?"

Another nod.

"And you would be willing to use violence, if necessary, to further our cause?"

"Yes."

"In that case," Henrietta smiled her most bewitching smile, "you leave me with no choice." She took a step away from him and snapped her fingers.

Immediately the alley was flooded with light. Somewhere close by a siren blared and a man's voice, magnified by a megaphone, bellowed: "Hands behind your head!". The tramp of hundreds of pairs of boots announced the arrival of an entire unit of peacekeepers, all armed with guns, all of which were pointing straight at the doctor.

Dr Scipio Hendrik looked shocked and horrified at this sudden turn of events. "B-but...", he stammered.

"But nothing," Henrietta snapped. "You gambled, you lost. Simple as." She adopted a suddenly very formal voice. "Dr Scipio Hendrik, you are hereby charged with dangerous revolutionary and terroristic activities with the intent to commit violence, the penalty for which is immediate execution. Your guilt has been established beyond doubt. Sentence to be carried out immediately."

"B-but..."

She shrugged. "Sorry, 'Skip'. That's how the world works around here. You played with fire and got burned. Bad luck. It's not like we didn't give you plenty of opportunities to get out of this." She could tell by the agonised expression on his face what he was thinking. _Why did I read the letter? Why did I come here? Why did I agree to all those things? Why didn't I walk away?_

It really was too bad. The doctor was good at his job and seemed like a nice enough guy. Unfortunately for him, she was also good at hers. "Prepare the firing squad."

She tuned back to the prisoner who had been seized by two peacekeepers and shoved roughly up against the nearest wall. "I really am sorry but it can't be helped. You're too dangerous to leave alive. I could tell you that your death is for the sake of the nation, that we have to crush any hint of rebellion completely to protect the common citizen. Would that make it any better?" When the doctor didn't answer, she shrugged. "Have it your way." She turned away and nodded to one of the peacekeepers.

Behind her, Henrietta heard a gunshot followed by a thump of something heavy hitting the floor. Moments later the peacekeeper came up next to her, removing his helmet and tucking his gun back into his belt. "It's done," he commented casually. "We'll get someone to clean everything up here. No need to upset the neighbours."

"Car accident?", Henrietta suggested.

"That should work. Well done, by the way. Nice clean confession," the peacekeeper grinned. "But did you have to run quite so far with him? There were closer alleys, you know. It was murder to keep up with you."

Henrietta tossed her head scornfully and glared at him. "Well I had to make it look realistic, didn't I? And don't presume to tell me my job. Stick to yours unless you want to end up like our friend Skip over there." She nodded her head in the direction of the fallen doctor. "Plus, you could do with the exercise. I'm going to report back to command. Finish cleaning this mess up and try to make it look realistic this time."

As she headed up the street, pulling the stupid beret off her head, Henrietta turned back. "Oh, and by the way... We need a new code word. This one's stupid. No actual, real secret society would use a bird as their code word. No one's going to buy that, it just doesn't sound realistic."

* * *

First of all thank you to everyone who submitted. All the tributes were brilliant and I wish I could have accepted all of them! I'm really sorry to everyone whose tribute I didn't accept, they were all still wonderful! And to everyone who did get a tribute congratulations and thank you! I'm really looking forward to writing about them all!

So, here are the tributes:

District 1:

Male: Flash DeLuca

Female: Brinley Lassiter

District 2:

Male: Neros Lancaster

Female: Rhea Evers

District 3:

Male: Beckett Benson

Female: Alaka Jani

District 4:

Male: Milan Hilliard

Female: Anya Lavier

District 5:

Male: Xander Maxwell

Female: Jocelyn Winston

District 6:

Male: Joss Bentley

Female: Karina Ventura

District 7:

Male: Basil Mills

Female: Jayda Ula

District 8:

Male: Patch Polka

Female: Farrah Kastner

District 9:

Male: Lance Cade

Female: Daria Thompson

District 10:

Male: Zachariah Pencross

Female: Nerea Cowlden

District 11:

Male: Cane Holmes

Female: Viola Abbey

District 12:

Male: Elijah Valtier

Female: Avalon Moreno

Thanks again and congratulations to all their submitters. While I'm on the subject, two submitters got 2 tributes each. This doesn't affect their chances (well, it kind of does. They now have a 2/24 chance of one of their tributes winning... technicalities :D) and will have no effect whatsoever on the story. I just wanted the best tributes to make the story as good as possible, regardless of submitter. It's not favouritism or anything, I promise!

And here is the blog! I'll put the link on my profile but I get the feeling they're not working at the moment? Anyway, I'm terrible with computers so the wonderful Axe Smelling God posted the blog for me. So a MASSIVE thank you to Axe – you're a star and without you there wouldn't be a blog so THANK YOU!

dansemacabres . blogspot

Also, I've had quite a few comments on the Capitol predictions. Even if some of them look weird, there is a reason for them. I've considered everything on the form when ranking them, not just the s/w and I've tried to base it on how someone in the Capitol would rank them. E.g. the Capitol don't rate the outer districts like 11 and 12 very highly so they have lower predictions than would be expected from their s/w. Hope that makes sense. And sorry if that's not how people normally do it :D Also, just because a tribute gets a low prediction DOES NOT mean they will be killed in the bloodbath and it DOES NOT mean I don't like them! I love them all! ;) Basically, there is a point to the Capitol predictions, they aren't just random and some of them will have a bearing on the story. So even if they look weird, they aren't, I promise.


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